Beware of Pity

by Stefan Zweig

  The plump little man stood there confronting me in such a state of agitation that I felt that if I dared to contradict him he would fall upon me. At that moment a blue flash ran like a vein along the darkened horizon, and was followed by a dull roar and rumble of thunder. Condor suddenly broke into a laugh.

  ‘There, you see, the heavens’ wrath is your answer! Well, well, you poor lad, you’ve had a thoroughly bad time of it today; one illusion after another has been cut away with the dissecting knife: first the one about the Hungarian aristocrat, then the one about the kindly, infallible doctor and helper of humanity. But surely you can understand how the old fool’s eulogies got on my nerves? In Edith’s case, particularly, all this sentimental slobbering goes against the grain, because it angers me to be making such slow progress, because I am ashamed to think that in her case I have not yet hit upon anything conclusive.’

  He walked on a few paces in silence. Then he turned to me and addressed me in a more cordial tone.

  ‘By the way — I don’t want you to think that in my own mind I have “given up the case”, as we doctors so charmingly put it. On the contrary, it’s just at this point that I refuse to give in, even if things continue as they are for another year, another five years. Curiously enough, moreover, it so happens that only yesterday, the day after that lecture I spoke of, I read in a Parisian medical review a description of the treatment of a case of paralysis, a very curious case of a fourteen-year-old boy who had been bedridden for two whole years, unable to move a limb; and Professor Viennot managed to effect such an improvement in his condition that in four months’ time he could climb five flights of stairs again with ease. Just imagine, he was able to effect a cure like that in four months in a case exactly similar to Edith’s, a case with which I have been fiddling about for five whole years! It positively knocked me flat to read about it. Of course the aetiology of the case and the methods employed are not quite clear to me; Professor Viennot seems in some strange way to have combined a number of methods — sun treatment at Cannes, some kind of apparatus, and a certain course of remedial exercises; from the brief case-history I can, of course, form no idea as to whether and how far any of his new methods would be practicable in our case. But I have written straight off to him to ask for more precise data, and it was with this in mind that I plagued poor Edith today with another thorough examination — one must, after all, have data in order to make comparisons. You see, therefore, that I am by no means lowering my flag, but, on the contrary, clutching at every straw. There may perhaps be some hope for us in this new treatment — I say perhaps, no more than that, and in any case I’ve been chattering far too much. That’s enough of my confounded “shop”!’

  We were now nearing the station. Our conversation would have to end soon; and so I said insistently: ‘You think then, that ...’

  But the plump little man pulled up with a jerk.

  ‘I think nothing!’ he hissed at me. ‘And there’s no “then” about it. What is it you all want of me? I’m not in telephonic communication with Almighty God. I’ve said absolutely nothing. Nothing definite whatever. I have pronounced no opinion whatever, and I believe and think and promise you nothing. I’ve been chattering far too much in any case. And now no more of it! Many thanks for your company. You’d be well advised to hurry back, or you’ll get a thorough drenching.’

  Without shaking hands, and obviously put out — I could not understand why — he rushed off on his short legs and, as it seemed to me, somewhat flat feet, to the station.

  Condor had been right in his prediction. The storm which had long been perceptible to our senses was unmistakably approaching. Great clouds seemed to clatter against one another like heavy black chests above the tremulous, quivering tree-tops, which were lit every now and then by pale darting tongues of lightning. There was an acrid smell in the damp air, which was tossed hither and thither by squally gusts. The town seemed quite changed, the streets were quite different, as I now hurried home. A few minutes before they had lain with bated breath in the pale moonlight; now the street signs clanked and clattered as though startled out of an oppressive dream, doors rattled uneasily, chimney-pots groaned, in some of the houses inquisitive lights were turned on, and here and there white-clad figures could be seen cautiously shutting the windows against the approaching storm. The few belated passers-by scurried from street-corner to street-corner as though driven along by the very breath of fear. Even the big main square, where at night a fair number of people were usually to be seen, lay completely deserted; the illuminated town-hall clock goggled stupidly and blankly down upon the unwonted emptiness. The main thing was that, thanks to Condor’s warning, I should get home before the storm broke. Only two more streets, and then across the municipal park to the barracks. Once in my room, I could ponder over all the astonishing things that I had heard and experienced in the last few hours.

  The little park in front of our barracks lay in complete darkness. The air was heavy and dense beneath the restless foliage; sometimes a short, snaky gust of wind would hiss among the leaves, and then the turmoil would give place to an even more uncanny stillness. I walked faster and faster. I had almost reached the entrance when a figure broke away from behind a tree and emerged from the shadows. I faltered, but did not stop — it was probably only one of the prostitutes who habitually waited for soldiers here in the darkness. But to my annoyance I could hear the stranger slinking rapidly after me, and I turned round to give the impudent wretch who was so shamelessly trailing me a piece of my mind. But in the glare of a flash of lightning which at that moment cleft the darkness I saw to my infinite dismay that it was a shuffling old man who was panting after me — the bald head bare, the gold-rimmed spectacles glittering orbs in the darkness. It was Kekesfalva!

  In the first shock of astonishment I could not believe my eyes. Kekesfalva in our barrack-grounds? Impossible, for had not Condor and I left him, dead-tired, three hours ago at his house? Was I the victim of an hallucination, or had the old man taken leave of his senses? Had he got out of bed in a fever and was he now wandering about like a sleep-walker in that thin jacket, without overcoat or hat? But it was undoubtedly he. I should have recognized that dejected, bowed, timid, slinking figure among thousands.

  ‘In God’s name, Herr von Kekesfalva!’ I cried. ‘How did you get here? Didn’t you go to bed?’

  ‘No ... or rather ... I couldn’t sleep ... I felt I must ...’

  ‘But you must go home, quickly. Can’t you see that the storm may break any moment now? Haven’t you got your car here?’

  ‘It’s over there ... waiting for me, to the left of the barracks.’

  ‘Splendid! But hurry, hurry! If your chauffeur drives fast you’ll get back just in time. Come along, Herr von Kekesfalva.’ And since he hesitated, I seized him unceremoniously by the arm to drag him along. But he wrenched himself free.

  ‘In a moment. In a moment ... I’m going, Herr Leutnant ... but ... tell me first ... what did he say?’

  ‘Who?’ My question, my astonishment were genuine. The wind howled above our heads ever more wildly, the trees groaned and bent over as though to tear themselves up by the roots; any moment now the rain might come pelting down, and I naturally thought only of one thing: how to get this old, obviously half-demented man, who seemed to be quite oblivious of the approaching storm, back to his home. But he stammered almost indignantly:

  ‘Dr Condor ... You spoke to him, didn’t you?’

  And now at last I understood. This encounter in the dark was, of course, no accident. In his impatient longing for certainty the old man had waited, had lain in wait for me in the park just outside the entrance to the barracks, where he knew I could not escape him. For three whole hours he had paced up and down in a state of terrible anxiety, barely concealed in the shadow of the dingy little park, which, as a rule, was frequented at night only by servant girls meeting their lovers. Evidently he had assumed that I should accompany Condor the short distance to the station and then return
immediately to barracks, whereas I had quite innocently let him wait, wait, wait for three whole hours while I had sat with the doctor in the wine-bar, and the ailing old man had waited, just as in the past he had waited for people who owed him money, stubbornly, patiently, relentlessly. There was something about this fanatical persistence that irritated and yet touched me.

  ‘Everything is quite all right,’ I said reassuringly. ‘Everything will be all right, I am confident of that. Tomorrow afternoon I will tell you more, I’ll tell you every word that was said. But now we must get you to your car, quickly. You can see for yourself there’s no time to lose ...’

  ‘Yes, I’m coming.’ Reluctantly he allowed himself to be led along. I managed to urge him ten, twenty paces farther. Then I felt him dragging at my arm.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he stammered. ‘Just a moment ... over there on the bench. I can’t ... I can’t go on.’

  And, indeed, the old man was swaying back and forth like a drunken man. The growling of the thunder drew nearer and nearer, and it took all my strength to drag him over to the bench, where he sank down, breathing heavily. It was plain that all this waiting had been too much for him, and no wonder! For three hours the old man with his weak heart had paced up and down, for three hours he had stood there on his weary old legs, keeping an uneasy look-out for me, and only now, when he had succeeded in catching me, had he realized the effort it had cost him. Exhausted, and almost in a state of collapse, he leaned back on the paupers’ bench, that bench where at midday workmen munched their snacks, where in the afternoons old pensioners and pregnant women rested, and where at night harlots accosted soldiers — this old man, the richest man in the town, leaned back and waited, waited, waited. And I knew what it was he was waiting for, I realized at once that I should never be able to get the stubborn old man to budge from this bench (how annoying if one of my fellow-officers were to catch me in this strange company!) unless I were to raise him up spiritually, as it were, unless I reassured him. And once more I was assailed by a feeling of pity, once more that confounded hot wave of emotion surged up within me, sapping my strength and will. I bent over him and began to talk to him.

  All around us the wind hissed, roared and spluttered. But the old man did not notice it. For him there was no sky and no wind and no rain — all that existed for him on this earth was his child and her recovery. How could I possibly have brought myself to report to him nothing but the blunt, naked truth, which was that Condor was as yet by no means certain of being able to effect a cure? He needed something, after all, to cling to, just as he had clung to my outstretched arm as he sank down on the bench. And so I hastily scraped together the few words of consolation that I had with difficulty wrung from Condor: I told him that Condor had heard of a new treatment which had been tried out with great success in France by Professor Viennot. Immediately I could feel a rustling and stirring at my side in the dark, and the body that but now had seemed lifeless and inert edged closer, as though to get warmth from mine. I ought really to have said nothing further at this stage, but my pity urged me further than I had any right to go. Yes, this treatment had been carried out in several cases with remarkable success, I said, encouraging him further and further; in three or four months quite astonishing cures had been effected, and probably, no, almost certainly, a cure would be effected in Edith’s case. Gradually a positive craving to exaggerate came over me, for it was wonderful to observe the effect of my reassuring words. Every time that he inquired avidly, ‘Do you really think so?’ or ‘Did he really say that? Did he really say that himself?’ and I in my impatience and weakness answered with an eager affirmative, the body that was pressed against mine seemed to grow lighter. I could feel the old man’s confidence increasing as I spoke, and for the first and last time in my life I had some inkling of the elation that accompanies all creative activity.

  What I said to Kekesfalva on that paupers’ bench I no longer know, and never shall know. For just as my words intoxicated my avid listener, so did his blissful hanging on my words rouse in me a lust to promise him more and yet more. We neither of us heeded the lightning that flashed blue all around us, nor the ever more persistent menace of the thunder. We stayed closely pressed together, talking, listening, listening, talking, and again and again I assured him, in tones of honest conviction, ‘Yes, she will get well soon, quite well,’ merely in order to hear him stammer out once more, ‘Ah!’ and ‘Thank God!’ and to share his ecstatic gratitude. And who knows how long we might not have gone on sitting there, had there not suddenly come that final gust of wind that heralds, prepares the way, as it were, for a violent storm. The trees bent double so that the wood creaked and snapped, the chestnuts rained down their bursting missiles upon us, and we were enveloped in a great, whirling cloud of dust.

  ‘Home — you must go home!’ I said, pushing him to his feet, and he offered no resistance. My words of consolation had strengthened, healed him. He no longer swayed as before, but rushed headlong with me to the car, where the chauffeur was waiting to help him in. Now at last I felt relieved, for I knew he was safe. I had comforted him. At last the poor, broken old man would be able to sleep — a deep, dreamless, blissful sleep.

  But just as I was about to spread the rug over his feet so that he should not take cold, an appalling thing happened. He suddenly gripped my wrists and, before I could prevent him, raised both my hands to his mouth and kissed them, first the right and then the left, then the right and then the left again.

  ‘Till tomorrow, till tomorrow,’ he stammered, and the car shot off as though borne away by the raging, icy wind. I stood rooted to the spot. But at that moment the first drops came splashing down, the rain drummed, pelted, beat like hailstones on my cap, and I ran the last four or five dozen steps over to the barracks in a downpour. Just as, dripping wet, I reached the entrance, there came a blinding flash, lighting up the stormy night far and wide, and in its wake crashed the thunder, as though bringing the whole heavens down with it. It must have been quite near, for the earth trembled, and there was a clatter as though all the window-panes had been splintered to atoms. But although I winced at the sudden blinding flash, I was not half so startled as I had been a few minutes previously, when the old man in his frenzy of gratitude had seized my hand and kissed it.

  After experiencing profound emotions one sleeps profoundly. It was not until I awoke next morning that I realized how completely bemused I had been both by the sultriness preceding the storm and by the overcharged atmosphere of my conversation of the night before. Starting up out of unfathomable depths, I stared at first in bewilderment at my familiar room, and made vain efforts to recollect when and how I had fallen into sleep of this depth. But there was no time to collect my thoughts, for with the part of my mind that functioned, so to speak, as a mere cog in the military machine, quite independently of my ego, I remembered that a special exercise had been ordered for today. From below in the courtyard came the sound of bugles and the stamping of horses’ hoofs, and I realized from the way in which my batman was bustling about that it was high time to be on the move. I scrambled into the uniform which was laid out ready for me, lit a cigarette, and rushed down the stairs into the courtyard. A moment later the waiting squadron moved off.

  When riding along as part of a column of cavalry one does not exist as a separate entity; the clatter of hundreds of hoofs prevents one from either thinking clearly or day-dreaming, and as we trotted along briskly I was oblivious of all else but the fact that we were jogging along into the most perfect summer’s day imaginable. The rain had washed every trace of mist and cloud from the sky, the sun shone warm, and yet there was no sultriness in the air, every contour of the landscape stood out in sharp silhouette. In the far distance every house, every tree, every field was as real and palpable as if one held it in one’s hand; every bunch of flowers in a cottage window, every ring of smoke above a roof-top, seemed to be confirmed in its existence by the vivid and yet pure colours. I could scarcely recognize this tedious high-road a
long which we trotted week after week at the same pace towards the same objective, so much greener and more exuberant was the freshly painted leafy roof that arched above our heads. I felt marvellously buoyant and care-free as I rode along; gone was all the uneasiness, the despondency, the uncertainty that had so frayed my nerves in the last few days and weeks, and seldom do I remember having carried out my duties more efficiently than on that radiant summer morning. Everything went off like clockwork, everything smiled on me: the sky and the meadows, the steaming horses, which obediently responded to every pressure of the thigh and every tug of the reins, and even my own voice when I shouted words of command.

  Now states of profound happiness, like all other forms of intoxication, are apt to befuddle the wits; intensive enjoyment of the present always makes one forget the past. And so when, after those refreshing hours spent in the saddle, I once more took the familiar road to Kekesfalva, it was only dimly that I remembered my nocturnal encounter. I revelled in my own blissful lightness of heart and the happiness of others, for when one is happy oneself, one can only picture the rest of the world as happy.

  And, indeed, no sooner had I knocked on the familiar door of the Schloss than the usually so obsequiously impersonal Josef welcomed me in particularly radiant tones. ‘May I take the Herr Leutnant up to the tower?’ he burst out eagerly. ‘The young ladies are waiting up there.’